Far, Far Better Thing Than I Have Ever Done
by silvermisery
Summary: Loosely based on the Tale of Two Cities. H/Hr, D/Hr. "Do you love me?" "Please don't ask me that." "I have to." "Draco..." "What do you want to hear? That I would die for you? Kill for you? I'd sell my soul for you, Hermione. What more do you want?"
1. Winning Isn't Everything It's The Only T

01 Prologue—Winning Isn't Everything…It's The Only Thing

_Disclaimer: OK, you know, this is really getting old. I mean, for the love of God, you guys are all able to read, right? Therefore, you saw the name on the book, right? Was it Silver Misery? __Or Vixen?__ Um, what was that? Yeah, that's it, um, no, it was not. Therefore, I do not own Harry Potter._

**A/N: As the more literate of you should be able to tell from the opening sentence, this ****fic**** is loosely based on Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities, my favorite classic besides Pride and Prejudice. But it's not strictly adhering, so don't flame me if I don't fit your criterion of a parody—it's not one. **

It was the happiest of times, it was the saddest of times; it was the age of healing, it was the age of destruction; it was the season of the Light, it was the season of the Dark; it was the spring of a new hope, it was the winter of the old hate, we had peace before us, we had war before us; we were all going directly to our wildest dreams, we were all going the other way—straight into Azkaban.

During those first delirious moments when Harry Potter stood over the fallen body of the Dark Lord, having found all the Horcruxes, having _willed _them out of existence by dint of his tremendous innate wandless magic, and then come after their maker himself, everybody had gone crazy with joy. It was the End of the War, it was the Beginning of a New Time, they were free at last, free from the haunted eyes and the strained faces and the grim, fey smiles.

The minute the last part of Tom Riddle ceased to exist, Patronuses flew from every wandtip at the battle—You-Know-Who was dead, the War was over! In a million different houses all over England, Scotland, and Ireland, parents sobbed with relief and raised thankful eyes to heaven, children stopped being adults and became children again, pulling up the blinds, laughing with the sunshine streaming on their faces, and even babies gurgled with delight and banged on the table with messy spoons. Parties were thrown, nobody was alone, even the old crotchety lady with a million cats at the end of the street was invited over for a drink and a hurrah, bars were suddenly thrown open, restaurants and coffee shops were filled to flowing with customers.

The world was suddenly alright again, as it had not been for so long.

And meanwhile, the boy who had caused it all stood swaying over the corpse of his enemy, blood pouring in rivulets down his face, streaking his glasses from the scar that, even as the onlookers watched, sizzled and crackled and slowly turned in on itself, erasing and clearing it, until at last no more was left than a faint white outline of a scar, just a normal scar, that had been caused and healed many years ago.

Then he collapsed.

The watchers murmured, but none dared to go and check to see if he was dead; the pulse of his wandless magic still throbbed around them even as the fear of his power throbbed in their hearts. In the end, it was a middle-aged man with shoulder-length black hair, a hooked nose, and flat obsidian eyes who went forward and gently lifted the prone form of their hero, carrying him off the field and out of sight.

Nobody stopped him, and for three years, Harry Potter was lost to the wizarding world.


	2. To Forgive, Divine

02 Chapter One—To Forgive, Divine

_Disclaimer: If, after my scathing rant in the prologue, you still wish to subject yourself to further scolding, it is my pleasure to provide it. If anybody out there is under the misapprehension that I own, or in any way connected to the running of the Harry Potter enterprise, you are sorely mistaken and should turn yourself in to the nearest asylum instantly, or at least admit that you are a__n__ incompetent imbecile. _

**A/N:****The**** chapter name comes from the famous quote by Alexander Pope: to err is human, to forgive, divine. **

Hermione Granger sighed wearily and rubbed her eyes, feeling the gritty, abused sensory nerves grate under her quill calluses. She knew without glancing in a mirror that her eyes would be as red as if she had spent another long, harried day working with minimal sleep—as indeed, she had. For some reason, when during the War she had allowed herself to give a few fleeting thoughts as to her future, she had never thought that a petty paper-pushing desk job would be her station in life. Being the best friend of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and a War heroine in her own right did nothing but to glorify the job and hide the pettiness a bit—and get her invitations to all the best parties, most of which she dutifully turned down.

Because of her job, she did have some small influence at the Ministry, but her idealism had gotten her nowhere, and anyway the influence was all trivial—food for blackmail, slight alterations in records, none of which she would ever stoop to, making the matter moot.

Besides, she thought wearily, in a short amount of time any influence in the Ministry might not only be moot, it might be dangerous. She could see the way the Ministry had veered from one extreme to another, from Fudge, steadfastly refusing to pull his head out of the hole, to Scrimgeour, determined to at least act as if he knew what he was doing, to that one minister she couldn't remember, Voldemort's toady. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been a good minister, but at the next election, he had been voted out of office for a man named Mylton, and things had gone downhill from there. The current Minister was, of all people, Dolores Umbridge, and, of course, she was woefully incompetent. The Ministry was filled with gamboling kittens, for one thing.

The people could see this—they weren't stupid, Hermione thought with some irritation, and anyone with half a brain could see that they weren't going to stand for this much longer. The people were angry, and restless, and they had had it up to _here. _Something was going to happen.

You could see it in their sullen eyes, the way they grumbled, the ominous silences after speeches, the reluctance of their applause for the Minister. She was half-ready to clear out, afraid that any implication with the Ministry might result in her death.

She had sent so many warnings, hinted to her bosses, pointed out facts to her coworkers, but nobody listened, passing them off as paranoid ramblings of that 'crazy nutcase who goes around all the time talking about that ridiculous SPEW.'

From the cubicle next to hers, she heard gossiping from her old schoolmates, Lavendar Brown and Parvati Patil, who had stayed together. "—can't believe they had the _nerve _to—"

"—but how _could _you stand it, honey, I would have simply _died_—"

"—before but never so _openly, _I simply _shivered _all over when that biggest one glared at me and yelled those obscene words—"

"—poor darling, you must have been _terrified_, why didn't you _tell _them that you had no part in it, that you work at the _Ministry, _for God's sake—"

"—don't you _see_they were attacking _because _I worked at the Ministry!"

"How do you know?"

"They were shouting at me, _horrible _things, go back to your—" her voice lowered, but Hermione could still hear the stage whisper— "goddamn Ministry, you paper-pushing bitch."

"—why!—I never—that is simply _too _awful!"

Hermione pushed back from her desk, her face white and her hands shaking and reached into her purse, pulled out a battle of small tablets, and hastily swallowed a pill, washing it down with a gulp from her ever-present coffee thermos. This—she had heard of attacks before, but never as open as this, and not so—_blatantly_aimed at the Ministry and its workers. It went too far.

Lingering only long enough to set her papers in order and gather every last memento of hers hanging in the office, Hermione Jane Granger set out to the Apparation stalls, stopping only at an office to drop off a few owls and destroy a few records here and there. Once there, she Apparated home and began to pack. Already the calming pills were taking their effect, and she could map out her immediate future quickly and clearly. She would sell the flat, rent it, give it away if she had to, and move to a small apartment she had, totally unconnected to the Ministry. Her funds should soon be transferred from a Ministry vault to a normal one. Her superior should get her resignation, along with her warning, soon enough, and then the records would be destroyed, and nothing would be left to show of her time at the Ministry.

She might have felt some lingering loyalty to the Ministry, but she didn't like it enough to stay around when her life was in danger.

In the cheap flat around a rather seedy area in London, quiet ruled supreme. An owl, a white one, dozed with its head under its wing, and nearby, a Siamese cat was curled up in a ball. Everything was dead silent. Sunlight streamed through the window, but it evaporated with barely a trace as it hit the dark, heavy décor, with black and silver and green on the walls, carpet, and furniture.

And then, a knock reverberated through the silence.

In the bedroom, a blond, tousled head poked out from under the covers, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and reaching for his glasses.

"G'way," he moaned.

"Draco! I know you're in there! Wakey wakey!" came the annoying cheerful voice of one Bloody Git, also known as Blaise Zabini, who was far too awake for this early in the morning. This was absurd. Malfoys were a creature of the night. This early in the morning was just not right.

**(Guess where that's from. It's by Maya…a goddess.)**

He responded with a stream of creative profanities.

"Ooh, touchy are we? Well, open the door, or I'll blast it open myself." Unfortunately, the aforementioned Complete Bastard was annoyingly good at blasting hexes, and after replacing one door, the not-exactly-rich Draco was not eager to pay for another, let alone redo all the wards on his places. Somehow, he managed to stumble to the door and open it. As Blaise bounced in, Draco sank into a chair.

"It's too early for this, Blaise…"

With a grin, the dark-haired man handed his friend a vial, which the blond opened and gulped down gratefully. "Hangover Potion…" he moaned. "The drink of the gods…"

"I thought that was coffee," said Blaise pointedly.

"Either. Both. It doesn't matter either way. Now, why the hell are you waking me up so early when you know how late I went to sleep last night?"

"I don't," grinned the infernal prat. "I know when you went to bed, but you took somebody with you."

"Who?" asked Draco resignedly. Not another one-night stand, he muttered internally. He was sick and tired of fucking people without even remembering their name.

"Oh, I dunno. Some red-headed girl who was dancing pretty well last night. Whatever happened to her?"

What had happened to her? Draco racked his mind for memories…oh yeah, that's right. "She had a flexible body all right. Nothing too special, though. I think she let herself out. Where's the coffee?"

Rolling his eyes, the Italian moved through the flat with the ease of one who is familiar with the inside, searching for the coffee mixer, finally finding it behind the microwave. "Mate, you gotta clean up your place," he called as he poured in a coffee mix.

"Why?" grumbled Draco. His headache was still there, though it was wavering, and he had never been much of a morning person anyway, even in Hogwarts. It just wasn't part of his persona.

"Because it's filthy!" yelled the exasperated git. "It looks like a pigsty!"

"Blaise, I seriously doubt you have ever seen said pigsty in your life. Besides, what's the point? It's not like anyone ever comes here anyway."

"Since I come here all the time, what does that make me? Besides, what about all your one-night stands, friends with benefits, and various others?"

"My one-night stands are usually too drunk to care, my friends with benefits are used to it, what various others, and you don't really count."

"Gee, thanks."

"Any time."

"Doesn't your landlady care?"

"She's too scared of the big, bad Death Eater to care," Draco said self-deprecatingly, but there was a hint of bitterness in the mockery, and Blaise, knowing he had touched upon a sore nerve, hurriedly changed the subject. Not that Draco wasn't a whole mass of sore nerves, but it was never wise to tread on his patience…especially on a morning after.

"You know, you really should see someone about your addiction."

"Which one?" quipped the Slytherin.

"Alcohol, coffee, sex, snarkiness, take your pick."

"Ouch. And you're supposed to be my friend."

"As your friend, I'm telling you you need to clean up. Oh, and did I mention you need to get to work in approximately five minutes?"

"WHAT?"

Blaise didn't even bother to hide his smirk as he watched his friend, drink-buddy, and erstwhile fuck-buddy run frantically around, casting cleaning charms, summoning spells, and various other things in a vain attempt to make himself somewhat presentable before he raised his wand and Apparated out.

Blaise followed suit.

"I'm _sorry, _sir," said Draco with thinly concealed impatience. "I need to get in."

"Why should I let you in?" asked the lout for what seemed like the millionth time. Draco clenched his fists inside his robes and fantasized about what he would like to do to the brute. _Garroting sounds nice…imperius making him act like a chicken and chase after Hagrid saying he luurves him._

"Because I need to get in. I'm the secretary for one of the lawyers in the court today."

"How do I know you're not lying?" _crucio…twitching and screaming on the floor…_

"Why would I lie?"

"Because you're Draco Malfoy! You're an ex-Death Eater." _Avada Kedavra dead dead DEAD!!!!_

With an effort, he calmed himself. _Think of a lake. You are a lake. __A frozen, ice glacier.__Calm._He could almost hear Severus's voice in his head, teaching him Occlumency during those long hours at Hogwarts when there was nothing else to do and he had finished his homework and Mother and Father didn't want to talk to him and he was so fucking _lonely. _

"I have the credentials here."

"Why didn't you say so?"

"I did." His voice was—more or less—even. He was remarkably proud of that.

"Malfoy! You're late!" his boss's other secretary, a Hufflepuff who had been in his year, called, pushing towards him. Draco suppressed the reflexive sneer that usually drifted to his face whenever he was faced with a Hufflepuff.

"Sorry, Abbott," he said. "This lout wouldn't let me in." The brown-haired woman turned her formidable glare upon the aforementioned lout, who shifted uncomfortably but still glared back. Hannah's formidable glare was slightly lessened by her rosy cheeks, which always gave the impression that she was pleased.

"You've made him late. _Again._ Should I be perhaps asking The Right Honorable Shacklebolt about this?" she asked ominously.

"No ma'am," he mumbled.

"Good. Come along Malfoy, you're already late as it is.

As Draco strode along behind her, he scowled and mouthed, "Bossy bitch," at her back. Despite the fact that, due to his love of argument, his sharp tongue, and his Slytherin ability to either attack ruthlessly or wiggle out of almost any loophole, he made an exceptional lawyer, his status as ex-Death Eater ensured that he would never rise to a position of much prominence. He was currently working as an intern lawyer, assigned to all the cases with much paperwork and little glory, and helping his boss with the harder cases, then stepping back and watching as his boss took all the glory.

Since the Hufflepuff was almost certainly sleeping with his boss, Lawyer Terry Boot, of all people, she was in a position to boss him around, though technically he was above her, and she took full advantage of it. She was even worse than Granger, he thought sourly, who at least had matured since their school years and had a pretty face to make up for her character defects.

"Malfoy! You're late!"

No surprise there.

"Really? Was there anything else I already know you'd like to tell me? How to read perhaps?"

"Watch that mouth, Malfoy. I might decide that another intern would do just as well."

Unspoken was the assumption that no other lawyer would deign to hire a former Death Eater, and what chafed Draco was that Boot was right. Unfortunately, the Wizarding World still shuddered at the name Malfoy, but not exactly in the way his father had dreamed of. Despite the fact that Draco had changed sides somewhere along the line, he had been a Death Eater at first, and his deeds were not forgotten. He had killed, tortured, raped, pillaged, and sometimes he still woke up at night in a cold sweat, shivering and shaking as the screams of his victims echoed in his ears and their accusing blank eyes swam in his vision.

Since his position as a spy had not really done much to garner information until he was found out, and since he was never very keen at heroic acts, since despite how brave you were and how touching a story you might make about the last stand, at the end of the story you were still dead, he had not been acclaimed. Apparently, fighting for the Order in a quiet, background sort of way was not enough to redeem all the atrocities he had committed before.

So instead of saying, as he once might have, "I can't; my nose gets in the way," he simply gave a magnificent sneer and swirled away in a billow of robes and cloak, learned direct from the master of the art: Severus, who was currently a Potions Master, churning out obscure potions for ridiculous prices from his secluded home somewhere in Manchester.

Today's case was fairly routine; two wizards up against each other claiming that the one had performed an illegal curse on him, demanding reparations. Boot was the prosecutor. Draco frankly thought that their case was ridiculous; this curse wasn't illegal, hadn't been in centuries, he had cast several of them himself, but a case was a case and his boss was his boss and he had done his research.

Mr. Abernathy would soon find himself a couple hundred Galleons shorter, gone direct to the purse of their client Mr. Sirigell, thanks to a lucky discovery by Draco that despite the fact that no one had actually called someone up for this curse for several centuries, the law that made this curse illegal had never actually been rescinded. Draco was fairly sure that the law, no matter how archaic, would win the case, despite the precedents to the opposite effect.

Not that he would have the pleasure of delivering the information to Mr. Abernathy and watching his face crumble. No, Boot would do that, and do it without any of the flair or panache Draco would have had. Not for the first time he cursed his father's Dark Mark, his own stupid decisions, Voldemort's existence, the War, Dumbledore's death, Snape's Unbreakable Vow, Harry Potter's annoying tendency to save everyone but himself, and people in general.

"Malfoy!"

"Yessir?"

"New case," grunted Boot. "Old schoolmate, too. Nott wants a cover-up for a date-rape. Get it done. The accuser is one Lavendar Brown."

Draco rolled his eyes. The way Brown dressed and acted, she was just begging to be date-raped. Also, he sincerely doubted it was a rape if she was cooing at the 'rapist' and seducing him, begging him to 'fuck me hard' until the very last minute, when she suddenly snapped back, just so she could raise a scandal, a hell of a lot of drama, and get some extra Galleons. Still, it would be a hell of a case, and after all the work, Boot was going to steal the glory—and the Galleons.

He sighed. He really hated his life.


End file.
